Love Songs: The Wrong Note - A Collection of Short Stories

The Illusion of Hollywood

The line wormed its way by inches into the stately old funeral home. Out the front door, and along the street, people stood in droves, quietly talking or silently lost in thoughts they shared with no one – passing the time staring at the sky, the ceiling, or their shoes.

To the young man standing in the center of the reception room, the throng seemed endless.

There was a dull throb behind his eyes, a persistent ache that wouldn't go away. He mechanically shook the offered hand and bowed his ear to hear the proffered words of each shy and softly spoken kindness.

Occasionally, the color rose in his cheeks, tinting them a blushing pink and adding years of youth and innocence to his face. His eyes were the purest blue set in features kissed by the gods of handsome good looks. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and gilded with a crown of silky, blonde curls that had been cropped short.

He filled the room, his very presence demanding attention, and like loyal subjects, each person who had waited patiently in line, stepped forward to pay homage to their shining star, this golden specimen of humanity against which other mortals paled.

Meredith stood beside the lumpy form of an old lady and picked her nose in boredom. There were at least a million other things she'd rather be doing than standing here taking up space in this stupid mob of people.

She'd tried to keep herself occupied and out of trouble. She'd eavesdropped on the conversation of the adults around her but decided their talk was as stale as the birdseed she'd scooped from the feeder this morning and popped into her mouth.

She didn't know what all the fuss was about, and for the life of her, she could not understand waiting an eternity to advance a step or two.

But her mother had insisted they come. Her mother explained to Meredith that this was an event of a lifetime, that everyone in town was sure to show up, and that they mustn't miss out on this rare and fantastic opportunity.

Her mother had breathlessly told the little girl that they might even be lucky enough to get an autograph. Meredith had questioned her mother about what that big word meant. She was told that it was something very, very special.

"What's so special about it?" Meredith had asked.

"I told you, honey. He's a star. We might get his autograph. He might sign his name on a piece of paper for us," her mother had said, giggling like a star-struck teen.

Her mother's giddy reaction caused Meredith to run to her room and unearth the battered shoe box from under her bed. The box contained all of her worldly treasures.

From among the marbles, pieces of string, and broken doll arms, she retrieved a stubby pencil end that she'd found in the grass last summer and painstakingly wrote her own name on a scrap of paper. She approached her mother with bursting pride, presenting her with this very, very special and most wonderful present.

But when Meredith handed the wrinkled scrap with its smudged leaded scrawl to her mother, the woman laughed and said she was such a silly, silly girl.

The precious scrap was crushed inside her mother's palm and carelessly tossed into the trash can.

Now, here she was, trapped in this unmoving line for what had seemed like an eternity. There were so many games to be played, but here she stood, right behind the lumpy lady who smelled like a musty closet. To Meredith, the whole evening had been about as exciting as those tasteless husks of birdseed.

She wiped her finger on the underside of her dress and proceeded to attack the other nostril. The shapeless old woman shuffled forward a couple of steps, and so did Meredith, who occupied herself by searching the sky near the light pole. She hoped to spy the telltale silhouette of a bat fluttering nearby, searching for the moths attracted to the light.

What would these old sticks-in-the-mud do if a flurrying rush of teeth and wings swooshed down upon them, she wondered. Scatter like roaches when the light switch was flicked on. The thought made her smile. But her mirth was short-lived.

Shoot.

She realized there wasn't even the slightest hint of a rock nearby to toss into the corona and fool the blind creature into chasing after what it hoped was its dinner.

She kicked at the sidewalk, scuffing the toe of her brand-new Mary Janes. Mama would not be pleased. She thought of taking the shoes off and letting her toes breathe, wiggling them expectantly inside their patent leather bindings, but decided against it.

How she longed to be at home and out of this hateful dress. What would she do if she spied a kid from school? Meredith would croak if her friends saw her like this. She spat upon the concrete in disgust.

The lumpy lady advanced one step forward. Meredith, assuming she'd take more, took two steps and bumped into lumpy. The old lady harrumphed and glowered down at the little girl with an evil-eyed stare that would wilt steel. Meredith felt her momma's hand on her shoulder and heard her mother's voice floating toward lumpy in an airy apology.

Meredith's mom resumed her whispered conversation with the man behind her. Meredith remained as still as a statue, and her mother's hand fell from the small shoulder to flutter in the air and punctuate some point she was making to the man. The little girl stepped to the side to avoid her mother's grasp in the unlikely event her mom remembered her charge.

The lump moved forward again, and this time Meredith took care to measure her progress. She sighed deeply, a hopeless release of breath that merely hinted of her frustration.

She would grow old here, she decided, right on this very sidewalk, shriveling and withering with the weight of centuries of age, drying up like a mummy, turning to dust, and blowing away at the whim of the wind's fancy. Vanished. Without even a footprint's trace that she had ever lived upon this hard, uncaring earth.

A loud crack like a thunderous boom rent the night.

The ocean of shocked faces looked to the top of the steps at the front entrance. The great double doors flung open, and like Moses with his flowing beard and silvery hair blowing in a breeze that suddenly stirred, an elderly figure appeared before them. His eyes were wild, remorseless. He brandished the pistol left, then right, and the crowd dipped and parted like the Red Sea before him.

"He did it!" the aged voice cracked. "By golly, he did it! But he ain't gonna git away with it!"

Someone from behind the bent figure broke from the crowd and wrestled the gun from the clawing grip of his wizened hand. In the chaos that followed, it was easy for Meredith to weave her way into the inner room where two corpses now lay.

The air was laden with the sweet smell of flowers strewn and tumbled about by the passing whirlwind. Her nostrils burned with the pungent smell of gunpowder and the soured scent of fear.

The room had been cleared, except for two men who stood in a far corner talking intently, taking no notice of the small child who had quietly entered the room.

The casket was centered on the back wall of the room. Its lid was closed, making it nothing more than a piece of furniture - elaborate and ornately carved. A large framed portrait of a beautiful woman was upturned face-up on the floor, toppled from the easel that had held it.

Beside the portrait, the body of a young man rested. His blonde curls were askew, his features slack. His unblinking eyes stared fixedly at images that Meredith could not see.

She turned to go, mindful that her mother would be searching for her in the crowd. But just like Lot's wife, she couldn't resist the urge to take one more peak behind her. She looked back just in time to see a hard-shell insect skitter from beneath the casket and across the bloody puddle that had oozed from the dead man's body.

She watched, mesmerized, as it silently zigzagged in a drunken path toward her. Quickly, she bent and scooped up her prize, cupping the bug in her hand and stuffing it into the pocket of her dress.

What good luck, she thought, feeling it frantically fingering for a way of escape from inside her pocket. Mama would be so happy, Meredith mused.

Now, she would truly have something very, very special - a thousand times better than any old worthless handwriting penned on a piece of crumpled paper.

The thought made her giggle like a star-struck teen as she snuck quietly from the room.